


The Detective, his Blogger, The Winchesters and a Cannibal

by Nikotheamazingspoonklepto



Category: Hannibal (TV), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Cannibalism, Detectives, Gen, John/Sherlock established relationship, M/M, Mystery, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:12:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikotheamazingspoonklepto/pseuds/Nikotheamazingspoonklepto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John convinces Sherlock to go on Holiday to America. Sam and Dean Winchester end up in Virginia to investigate possible Supernatural Activity of what could either being an active Cannibal hunting humans or a similar Supernatural being called Rugarus.  Sherlock being Sherlock sticks his nose in other people's business and claims he is helping people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story follows several different archs and times in each individual show. I am doing my best to keep in character and maintain plot and the integrity of the stories.

The plane from Heathrow London Airport to Albany International Airport in New York, USA had landed John Watson and Sherlock Holmes for their tour of the United States of America two weeks ago. So far they have been touring the East coast and right now they are in Stafford, Virginia in a Land Rover they have rented for the sole purpose of their Holiday. Along with the mobiles they would need, seeing as theirs have been rendered too expensive to maintain upon landing.

 

Why had they decided to take this Holiday? Well Sherlock had been moping about for two months straight, even with cases rating at 8.3 on average and solving cold cases for Lestrade when there was a break in the more interesting crimes. John decided that they needed a change of scenery and Sherlock could benefit from traveling, he bribed him with learning new things to solve potential cases and maybe run into a bit of trouble while they visited. Knowing them, they would run into something. However it has been two weeks already and they have so far only seen the sites, no crimes, not even at hint of trouble and this has been taking its toll on Sherlock.

 

"Come on Sherlock, stop pouting, the weather is lovely and we've seen some pretty amazing things. The whole point of this was to get you out of your poor mood." John tries to cheer his lover up as they pull into the parking lot of a motel, parking beside a 1967 Chevy Impala. Once he climbs out of their vehicle he takes a moment to admire the well persevered oldie and then turns to Sherlock who barely pulls himself out of the passenger side with a scowl on his face.

 

"You said we would do something that would be beneficial to my work. So far I have see Ground Zero - boring, Plymouth Rock - its a rock, also boring, the world's 'largest' chocolate bar - I don't even like Hershey's chocolate, the-"

 

"If you didn't like it, why didn't you 'delete' it from memory?" John asks with a smirk, pulling his and Sherlock's suitcases from the trunk.

 

"Because you would be annoyed if I didn't remember something from this pointless Holiday." Sherlock huffs, pulling his coat collar up higher, even though it is currently seventy five degrees Fahrenheit at ten thirty at night, and stalks off toward the motel office.

 

John rolls his eyes and follows after his lover, knowing that, that is his way of trying to make an effort for him. At least he knows he cares.

"Enjoy your stay Mr. Jaramillo." The clerk at the desk says to a tanned brunet in a plaid shirt and denim jeans; both John and Sherlock recognize the faint outline of a handgun tucked into the back waistband of his jeans underneath his plaid shirt. 

 

Sherlock gives a small smirk to John when he realizes he too noticed it. John follows Sherlock's eyes as he looks to see another young man, coming from the laundry room with an empty duffle bag. He is much taller than 'Mr. Jaramillo' who is already a couple inches taller than Sherlock himself, but with much longer brunet locks and wearing similar clothing to the man at the desk. The blood shared between them is obvious, especially when the taller of the two steps up beside him, waiting to head to their motel room.

 

"Thank you Kathy." 'Mr. Jaramillo' gives Kathy a wink, taking his receipt and room cards from her. After passing one to his brother, they both turn to leave, the taller rolling his eyes at his brother's flirtatious behavior. The taller of them offers an apology for nearly running into the couple.

 

"No problem," John says in turn for both he and Sherlock. Judging by the look on Sherlock's face, he has deduced nearly everything about the brother's and he will have to wait until they have gotten into their room to ask him. 

 

"Can I help you boys?" Kathy asks politely, looking between John and Sherlock with a bit of flirty tone in her voice. 

 

"Yes, room for two please." John places his credit card on the counter that he and Sherlock share on a joint account. It is mostly Sherlock's money, but he insisted that John be in charge of their funds, John being the more responsible one.

 

"Two queens?" Kathy asks politely, her eyes darting up to Sherlock hopefully.

 

"No, a king will be lovely." John gives her his best smile, secretly enjoying the way her face falls at his words. Ever since he came to terms with his attraction to Sherlock and they started their relationship, he enjoyed letting it be known and especially finally being the one to trample over men and women alike to stake his claim on Sherlock.

 

"Right, how long are you planning to stay?"

 

John looks over at Sherlock, who is staring out of the window at the brothers who are entering their hotel room, right in front of their parked car. Sherlock's mind is reeling with new deductions as he observes until John snaps him out of it.

 

"What now?" He asks irritably, his train of thought derailed.

 

"How long do you want to stay for?" John responds calmly, far too used to his lover's mannerisms.

 

"A few nights, the Quantico military base is nearby and I'd like to give it a tour. They have been known to have -"

 

John stops listening and tells Kathy they would like a room for three nights. Knowing Sherlock, he probably looked up all research and crimes labs in the United States, which would indicate why he was so keen on visiting Virginia when he mentioned crossing the border two hours ago.

 

"Come on Sherlock," John shoves Sherlock's bag into the detective's arms and leads the way to their room. They are on the second floor; John notes that they are able to look out the balcony and down to their Land Rover.

 

"Come on then," John prods Sherlock once they are locked inside of their room, luggage dumped on the bed. "I know you're dying to tell me."

 

"The brothers, 'Mr. Jaramillo' who is definitely not Spanish - fake name, he is the older of the brothers. They are late twenty's early thirty's, orphaned, seen a lot of trouble, not the normal sort however..." Sherlock trails off, frustrated that he hadn't been able to deduce exactly what they have been up to. "Both are clearly skilled fighters, the younger is much more collected, book smart, while his older brother is the street savvy type. They travel a lot, go looking for trouble and they've been at it a long time." Sherlock looks to John with a familiar look in his eyes, cutting himself off his explanation.

 

"We're not going to follow them; it would be considered stalking Sherlock!" 

 

John groans at the pitiful look Sherlock gives him and digs through his luggage for his toiletries bag and a fresh pair of pants to change into.

 

"I'm going for a shower." John announces.

 

"I'll join you," Sherlock whispers seductively in his ear, pressed flush against John's back, hands pressed to his chest and hip.

 

"You are more than welcome to," John turns around in his grasp, hands sinking into Sherlock's curls, lips inches from his lover's. "We're still not following those boys." He presses a quick kiss to Sherlock's lips and pulls away.

 

"John!" Sherlock groans in displeasure.

 

John just smirks on his way to the bathroom for his intended shower.

 

-

 

"Didja see the way that curly haired freak was staring at us?" Dean asks his brother as he pulls his colt from the waistband of his jeans and places it beneath the pillow of the bed he's claimed.

 

"Uh, no." Sam sits down at the small two person table, pulling out his laptop. He needs to do some research on their new job. There has been a string of strange murders by what the FBI have been calling the Chesapeake Ripper. It sounded a bit out of the ordinary to them - a cannibal on the loose? Either it could be a very cautious Rugarus that is keen on avoiding the spotlight or just an ordinary cannibal. Either way, they were already in Virginia so Sam insisted to Dean that they check it out in the morning.

 

"It was definitely creepy, some weirdo tourist..." Dean trails off, muttering about foreigners being overly fascinated with American's. "Like he'd never seen an American before... bet he's the Chesapeake Ripper...."

 

"So get this," Sam starts, ignoring Dean as usual. "It looks like there were six murders about two years ago, three about nine months ago and then three more two months ago. The thirteenth one popped up a week ago. They are all the same style so it's by the same person or Rugarus and a lot of different organs missing from each body." Sam looks up from his laptop, finding Dean cleaning his gun. "What do you think?"

 

"I think we'll find out tomorrow. Gonna get some shut eye, we'll go pay a visit to our 'fellow' FBI agents in the morning." With that said Dean puts his gun back together and slips it beneath his pillow.

 

“Fine, I’ll do some more research on the Chesapeake Ripper, Rugarus and anything similar.” Sam turns back to his lap top as the lights in the room are turned off by his older brother.

 

-

 

Mary Butler, a young blonde in a wrinkled suit and an exhausted expression presses her forehead to the steering wheel as it sputters pitifully for the third time. She had broken down on the side of the dark, unlit country road ten minutes ago, and of course she has no cell service to call for help. She’d worked a late night at the office on a case for an old, ongoing case and just wants to get home to her cat and a glass of Chambord before going to bed and starting it all over again.

 

Mary sighs heavily and thanks the heavens that it is at least warm and not raining. With the car manual and flash light in hand she pops the hood of her car and tries to figure out what is wrong. She spends not five minutes looking around blindly when the telltale sound of a car comes from down the road, headlights coming into view just over the slight hill. Mary debates standing beside her car and flagging the driver down for assistance, but finds she doesn't have to when the car is already slowing down, to a stop behind her car.

 

“What the hell?!” Mary puts her arm up to shield her eyes as the driver turns on their high beams, blinding her momentarily. She squints as she looks up when the driver opens their car door and a tall figure step out, she cannot make out any of their features as they walk towards her in confident, purposeful stride. Frightened but desperate she calls out to the stranger.

 

“Um,” Mary stutters, “can you help me? My car broke down and I-” she shrieks as the person seizes her by her forearm, his face coming into clear view. Recognition floods her mind just as a damp cloth is pressed to her face, covering her mouth and nose. She struggles, screaming for her captor to let her go, but it is too late she has breathed in the chloroform. First she loses all feeling, numbed from the inside out, all sound fades into nothing.

 

The last thing she sees is the face of her smiling assailant. The Psychiatrist she'd met a while back when they started the case on the Chesapeake Ripper. Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Her world turns black and Mary Butler knows no more.


	2. Chapter one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchester brothers learn more about the Chesapeake Ripper case and begin their investigation. Sherlock continues to put his nose in other people's business against John's pleas to have a normal Holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait.

“Hello, I’m Agent Smith,” Dean introduces himself, flashing his fake FBI badge before introducing his brother who holds up his own badge. Both are decked out in their usual monkey suits for their façade as FBI agents. “This is my partner Agent Smith, no relation.” Dean looks into the eyes of the man at the security desk of the FBI Academy of Quantico, VA. The security guard barely glances at their badges and is eyeing them expectantly, unsure.

“What can I do for you agents?” He asks, cocking an eyebrow and leans back in his chair.

“We’re here about the Chesapeake Ripper Case, we were sent here” Sam answers sternly, staring the man down maintain face and keep eye contact that is important.

“Right,” the security guard nods and begins pressing keys on his keyboard. “You’ll need to speak with Agent Jack Crawford; he’s in his office right down this hall second passage on the left, take a right and it is about halfway down.” 

“Thank you my good man,” Dean gives him that fake smile he gives when he gets what he wants and heads off where he has been directed.

“What do you think this Crawford guy will be able to tell us? When I was researching these murders last night, his name came up, but he was not the one solving the case – not by himself.” Sam leans in as they make their way to Agent Crawford’s office, smiling politely at any worker that passes by.

“He’s probably the lead of the investigation, has all the info – good place to start.”

“Yea, someone by the name of Will Graham, a Criminal Profiler who worked closely with Jack Crawford came up repeatedly, but he was later on arrested for killing a girl named Abigail Hobbs and was suspected to be the Chesapeake Ripper due to incriminating evidence. The thirteenth murder happened while he was on his way to a Psychiatric Hospital for the criminally insane in Baltimore Maryland. This made the FBI suspect his involvement in the murders, which is why it is ongoing.”

“Was on his way?” Dean asks as they turn down the hall to the agent’s office.

“He escaped from the armed escorts. Hasn’t been seen since and no one has been able to find him.”

“Awesome, we’re dealing with a crazy Cannibal and a likely psychopath.”

“Yea, nothing worse than what we normally deal with.”

Dean smirks at his brother’s response, stopping in front of the office labeled ‘Jack Crawford.’ They share a brief look before he knocks on the door, receiving a ‘please come in’ from a deep baritone man at the desk doing paperwork.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” Jack looks up at the two men before him as they introduce themselves Agents Smith and Smith. No relation. Jack shows no outward response to this, taking in their appearances. While they are both dressed like FBI Agents and have the official badges, the taller one’s hair is about eight inches past uniform regulation. Who are these people?

“We’re here to investigate the Chesapeake Ripper Case.” Sam answers, tucking his badge away before he continues. “It has been ongoing for approximately two – three years?”

“Correct, we had a Criminal Profiler on board but all evidence pointed to him being the Chesapeake Ripper after he killed the copy cat’s daughter.” Jack gives only public information as he stands, buttoning his suit jacket as he does so. “Why the sudden interest of out of state agents?” He asks, hoping to catch them in a lie. Jack can hardly believe these people to be true FBI agents.

Dean’s eyes squint ever so slightly at Jack, this man is more keen and observant, but they have not dealt with actual FBI in a while. So this man can probably tell they are either really not FBI or simply thinks them to be terrible agents.

“We were in the neighborhood. Can you tell us anything of use?” Dean decides to use a more forceful approach and see how far that gets them; he can feel Sam’s annoyance thick in the air.

“Mhm, everything we know is on the FBI server that you should have access to. You have read it all, right?” Jack continues trying, pressing them to slip up.

“Yes, but you had worked closely with Agent Will Graham, the man suspected to be the Chesapeake Ripper who apparently escaped on the way to a Psychiatric hospital. We want to know anything you can tell us, Agent Crawford; Anything from your personal experience on the case that can help or from your association with Will Graham.” Sam speaks proudly, mentally throwing his research in Dean’s face because he almost never does his own research.

“I wish I could Agent.” Jack makes a tight fist, gently tapping it on his desk top, “but Will never really spoke to me during the case or during the murder investigations.” Jack looks at the agents with a solemn expression, guilt evident in his eyes. “I will tell you this though, I pulled Will away from his teaching position on a regular basis to assist with the case and as the case went on I began to witness what I now know as Will losing more and more of himself. I just never suspected him to actually be the Chesapeake Ripper – I never saw the signs. His Psychiatrist- well his friend never saw them.” Jack stops talking and sits back down, suddenly feeling exhausted. “So if you can find him and lock him back up. That will put my mind at ease. Get Will the help he needs.”

The brothers glance at each other before looks back at Jack who clearly wants this mock interview to be over. Not wanting to keep reliving the obvious pain and trauma he experienced during the case.

“You said Will had a friend – a Psychiatrist?” Sam asks, curious about a Psychiatrist who wouldn't be able to see the signs of psychotic cannibal.

“Yes, Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I set Will up with him for a psych evaluation after the first murder when we started working on this case, Dr. Lecter cleared him to work – against one of his colleague’s personal opinions and they maintained a steady friendship. I can give you his card if you like.”

“And this colleague of his.” Dean interjects before his brother can say anything. “We’d like to interview everyone involved with Will Graham.”

Jack stares at the Agent for a moment, just wondering what he is getting at. They can’t really be FBI Agents, can they? They seem to be taking this investigation seriously. Until he can prove that they are not really Agents, Jack decides to let them at it. Should be interesting.

“By all means…” Jack shifts in his seat, pulling out several business cards from the drawer of his desk and begins scribbling information down. He holds out the legal pad yellow piece of paper for them to take, the Smith with the long hair steps forward and takes it.

“Thank you Agent Crawford, we’ll be in touch.” Dean smiles his professional smile.

“Here,” Jack holds out his business card; all of his information on it. 

“Thanks again,” Sam says and then they turn to leave, getting halfway to the door before they are stopped in their tracks.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Agent, how is it that you are allowed to have your hair so far past regulation?” Jack smiles as he watches the Agent stiffen at the question, cocking an eyebrow when he simply turns with a smirk.

“It’s against the law to discriminate against one’s religion, sir.” Sam hadn’t been prepared for such a question, but the Winchesters have always been known to think quickly on their feet.

“Agreed,” Jack replies after a moment, nodding to the Agent. “Good to know the FBI still respect things like that.”

“Isn’t it?” Dean says with a laugh, “well, bye.” They exit Agent Crawford’s office, closing the door behind them and head back the way they came. They ignore the couple pressed casually into the wall beside them in favor of going over the list they were given.

“So we have three people to find. Dr. Lecter, Alana Bloom and Freddie Lounds.” Sam folds the list up again and tucks it into the pocket of his suit jacket. “Where do you want to start?” He asks his brother.

“Start from the bottom of the list. Freddie Lounds, it says she is a tabloid writer. Probably get an honest response from her, a lot easier than the bloody Psychiatrists.”

Sam only laughs at his brother’s reply, not saying anything else until they've exited the building and head back to impala

-

“Sherlock, I know you want to get a good look at what they are working on here,” John starts in reference to the FBI Academy they are in, heading to the main desk to get visitor badges. “But do you really think your brother will be able to get us free access to anywhere we want to go?”

“Yes, the bloody git has to be of some use.” Sherlock gives John an incredulous look, concerned as to why John would even ask that question.

John rolls his eyes and then practically stumbles when Sherlock grabs his arm, forcing him to stop moving.

“What now?” He growls at the detective, looking up at him and then follows his line of site across the room. After a moment, John finally realizes what Sherlock is staring at, the two men in suits, talking to the security guard at the front desk.

“Isn’t that-”

“Yes,” Sherlock cuts him off, smirking when the men hold up what looks to be FBI badges. “The gentlemen from the motel… posing as FBI Agents? Should be interesting, shall we?” Sherlock asks his question that really isn’t a question but a simple ruse to make John feel like he is including him by asking his opinion.

“Sherlock!” John hisses, following quickly after his significant other to the security guard, once the men have left, going down a hall way.

“Can I help you?” The guard asks, staring up at the shorter man and the taller who is smiling politely. He takes the plastic card that the taller one holds out, reading the name of S. Holmes and bits of information on it. Class V – whatever that means and finds a magnetic strip on the back that he swipes through the card reader, information popping up on his computer screen. After several moments of reading, the security guard raises his brow at the man in front of him and hands the card back.

“Enjoy your visit Mr. Holmes.” He says when the card is taken back.

“Thank you, come along John.” Sherlock begins walking down the hall that he’d seen the two men walking down.

“God, Sherlock, what the hell are we doing?” John snaps quietly at the detective, shorter legs conditioned to keep up with him.

“Having a bit of fun… I’d like to know what a pair of men like them are doing posing as FBI Agents.”

“Sherlock, we’re going to get in a lot of trouble.” John sighs, know his concerns are going unheard and just follows along, hoping this to be painless.

Sherlock follows the hallway, listening for the ‘Agent’s’ footsteps and voices to find the right way to go. He stops several paces from the entrance to the office they went into and listens hard to the conversation they are having with a man named Agent Jack Crawford. John is pressed close to his back to also listen in; ever the curious man when face with danger or a challenge.

Chesapeake Ripper… Dr. Lecter… Suspect Agent Will Graham? Making quick use of the internet browser on his phone, Sherlock researches each tidbit of information he deems useful, finding out what is going on. Ah, a murder case – his favorite!; and what more, a cannibal? This should prove to be interesting. Sherlock cannot help the joyous smile spreading across his face as he listens in. Looks like John and he will be going under cover in order to weasel their way into this case if he wants to have any sort of fun on this Holiday.

Sherlock whirls around and leans into the wall with his hand on John’s face, leaning down toward his significant other’s reddening face. With his coat collar turned up and head ducked low, the brothers walk by without even noticing them.

Once the coast is clear, Sherlock pulls away and straightens himself, leaving John flustered as he walks down the opposite direction that the brothers went.

“No, Sherlock, we can’t. We’re not legal citizens of this country and we have no idea what they are dealing with.” John sees the glance that Sherlock gives him and rolls his eyes. “We don’t know yet, but we shouldn't be getting involved.” John honestly loves going on cases with Sherlock, that much is obvious, but now they are getting into foreign affairs and breaking into places with his brother’s information.

“This is my Holiday too, John. This time, I’m deciding what we’re going to do.” Sherlock leaves no room for argument as they round the corner stop short of colliding with a beautiful, young brunette woman.

“Oh, excuse me!” Alana apologizes up at the man in front of her and then to the short man beside him.

“Oh no, excuse us,” Sherlock purrs, offering his hand to the woman, seeing her badge reading Dr. Alana Bloom, one of the names mentioned earlier. How much luckier can he get? Sherlock puts on his charming smile, enticing the woman before him.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes; this is my colleague Dr. John Watson. I’m a consulting detective assigned to the Chesapeake Ripper case. You’re Dr. Bloom. I’ve heard good things about you, doctor.” 

“Oh, good to meet you Sherlock, Dr. Watson.” Alana smiles at the men before her, blushing faintly at Sherlock’s flirtatious introduction. Confidence in men always seemed to catch her interest. She never heard of a consulting detective but, Sherlock seems to know what he’s talking about.

“Pleasure,” John shakes Alana’s hand, resisting the urge to glare at Sherlock and maintain the façade that Sherlock wishes to uphold. After all these years, it’s just better to go with it and avoid being arrested.

“Well, I was directly involved in the case for a while, I can provide you with some assistance if need be.” Alana offers, glancing away nervously at Sherlock’s enticing eyes. He makes her heart flutter.

“Oh that would be lovely, could you show us around, tell us what you know?” Sherlock asks, casually brushing aside a piece of lint on her shoulder, intentionally sending shocks from their connection down her arm.

“Of course, my office is down this way and I’m free for the next hour.” Alana motions with her hand down the hall, Sherlock falling in stride beside her to her office. He hasn't lost his touch.

John silently agrees with Sherlock’s confident smile, reading his mind, the smug bastard. He’s going to have to have a talk with Sherlock about conveniently forgetting to mention the fact they are a couple to people when introducing them. At least Sherlock is happy, in his element on a case that they should not be involving themselves in. It’s a pretty normal day for them if anything. 

With Sherlock Holmes on the case, this will probably be solved in less than a week, whereas the FBI has been working on it for three years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be seeing more of Dr. Lecter and get to see Will soon!


	3. Chapter Two

Dr. Alana Bloom, Detective Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson are all seated in Dr. Bloom's office. John watches as Alana looks at the military id that he had handed her, stating his previous rank as Captain John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and Medical Doctor. Satisfied, Alana smiles at him and returns the card to his waiting hand before sitting back in her chair. Honestly, she really did not need the proof that he was a professional, but she appreciated the effort when it came to dealing with her friend Will. The detective, Sherlock sitting beside John across from her is staring at everything in the room. He had flirted with her so easily when they ran into each other, but now it just seems he is all business. However, she catches his attention when she clears her throat to speak.

“About Will… I had advised Agent Crawford to not put him out into the field in the very beginning. Will is a brilliant mind, but also highly unstable; which is why this may have lead to the murders he has been accused of committing.”

“Do you not think he did it then?” Sherlock interrupts, eyeing the psychiatrist. He realizes by now that Alana has conflicted feelings toward this Will Graham. They are friends, but she has deeper feelings than that for him. Her professional interest in him is another conflict she must be dealing with constantly. They haven’t always been friends either, and he makes her uneasy.

Alana stares back at Sherlock for a moment, her shoulders rising and falling with her deep breath.

“I am… uncertain. Will has shown some serious signs of mental illness since he was brought back into the field. I suspected he had some form of encephalitis but his MRI came back normal. Dr. Lecter, his unconventional Psychiatrist at the time told me that he seemed… ‘fine.’” Alana pauses, wondering how much further she should go with what she is saying. Some of this hadn’t been released in the official report due to lack of evidence.

“Who is this Dr. Lecter?” John asks, having been taking notes, knowing Sherlock would expect him to simply remember it all or call him an idiot for having to be reminded. “We’ve been hearing his name and yet no one has told us anything.”

“Yes, and you are a quite capable psychiatrist yourself. Why were you not Will’s, instead of Dr. Lecter?” Sherlock eyes Alana, his full attention on her. Before she can reply to that, he interrupts once more. “Perhaps that is due to your fear of the fact that he is a psychopath with a frightening ability to empathize with serial killers? Perhaps due to your unwanted love interest?” Sherlock; once again, blunt as ever.

“Sherlock!” John stares at his boyfriend wide eyed; they were supposed to befriend her, not antagonize her. They won’t get any information this way. 

Alana cannot respond, flustered and shocked at Sherlock’s deduction. They’ve known each other fifteen minutes and he somehow figured that all out?

Sherlock does not care. The more Alana talked, the more he saw. Just her body language showed how uncomfortable she is with the whole situation. Alana may be willing to help, but it seems that her personal opinions and feelings are interfering with her professional ones- The same way a lover may defend their criminal significant other.

“What are you hiding?” Sherlock demands, still sitting back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, gloved hands folded in his lap. His face carries his typical serious expression, intimidating the receiver into supplying the information he wants. 

“I-I’m not hiding anything,” Alana sputters, bracing herself by gripping the arms of her chair. What is there to hide?

“No, you definitely are hiding something. There is something you know, like maybe where Will is, seeing as the FBI has yet to find him when he escaped out of the back of the psychiatric ward’s van.” He smirks as Alana’s eyes glimmer with realization. “So tell me then, what is it that you know?”

“I – it's nothing, really it's nothing...” Alana trails off, looking down at her desk, biting her lip. She's a professional damn it, she should not be falling apart in front of this strange person, calling himself the world's only Consulting Detective. Whatever the hell that is.

“Anything you know may be of help to close this case.” John tries, holding his hand up at Sherlock so he doesn’t make things worse. He’s empathically challenged, and somehow being with John has yet to help with that.

“Will has dogs, they are his family,” Alana starts, finally calming herself down. “All different breeds and all of them picked up off the road – strays. I went to pick them up. I couldn’t leave them there to be put into a pound or put down, and I couldn’t drive out to Wolf Trap every day or so to look after them. When I got there it looked relatively untouched, but it definitely looked like Will had stopped there to pick up things before he ran away.”

“Surprised he risked going home, knowing the FBI would be after him.” John murmurs, truly surprised he would go home. However, he knows people with mental illnesses tend to not think about things like that when panicking.

“That’s not it though,” Sherlock snaps, bored with her trivial story. Why do they always have a story to go with everything?

“Winston, one of the dogs that was more attached to Will, liked to run off whenever he got the chance. I’d always find him back in Wolf Trap at Will’s house.”

“And…” Sherlock moves her along, earning a dirty look from John. 

Alana just frowns, growing more and more annoyed with his behavior; looks aren’t everything. Beauty, brains, but a piss poor attitude. The more she looks between John and Sherlock; she wonders how he handles working with him. Then she sees the look he gives the detective and combined with the several different looks he’s given it clicks in her head. They are dating and Sherlock had definitely played her. Embarrassed, but mostly angered at missing all of the signs, she glares at the detective.

“I am helping you, I don’t believe I deserve the attitude you are giving me, detective.” Alan bites at him, not allowing this to go further.

“Well I am trying to solve-”

“Sh- Sherlock. Stop.” John orders, using his soldier voice and his Captain John Watson glare on Sherlock. Instantly the detective closes his mouth and looks away, annoyed, but he’s learned to not cross John when he gets like this.

A bit surprised by that response, Alana is impressed and turns to John with a scathing question.

“Is he really a Detective like he says?” That earns her an icy glare from Sherlock.

“Yes, a bloody brilliant one but lacking in the social communications area. That’s why I’m here.” John inhales sharply, trying to move this ‘interview’ along. “Please, Dr. Bloom, tell us what happened at Mr. Graham’s house.” John leans forward, focused on Alana. “What did you find?”

“That’s just it, I didn’t ‘find’ anything, but there was an eerie presence, like something bad had happened there. I knew something was off… something was different - but I couldn’t find anything. I looked and looked all over that house, trying to find something.” Defeated by the memory, Alana slouches back in her chair, staring at John.

“I don’t know what happened there, but something did. Maybe there is some evidence that the FBI looked over. They always have someone check there once in a while, to see if Will would or had come back. There still has been nothing.” 

“What is the address?” Sherlock finally asks, cutting to the chase and breaking his short speaking time out that John had bestowed upon him with a simple look.

“Why?” Alana asks, did he really mean to go there?

“I’m certain you know how an investigation works, Dr. Bloom. The FBI has done their investigations, but I have not.” With that said, Sherlock stands, flipping his coat collar up and looks expectantly at Alana.

“Are you going to take us there or not?”

Something compels Alana to get up, collect her things and cancel the rest of her appointments for the day.

-

“Is he always like this?” Alana asks John from the door way where she stands beside the doctor. Sherlock needs his space so he can investigate what little is left of the undisturbed evidence that the FBI has left.

“Yes.” John answers without a second thought, smiling and still watching Sherlock work around the first room, his pocket magnifier in hand. 

“How long have you two been together?”

“We’ve been friends for five years now. Minus two for the period that he faked his own death,” Alana is cut off before she can question John’s nonchalant mention of Sherlock’s fall. “The last eighteen months we’ve been together. I left my fiancée for him.” John suddenly laughs at himself. “Sorry, that’s a bit more information than you needed eh?” 

“No, no it’s fine.” Alana trails off, pondering how it could work between them when they are so different.

“Do you think he did it? Commit all those murders?” John asks, looking at Alana calmly.

“Professionally, from a Psychiatrist’s point of view, I think he is mentally ill and highly unstable; he may not have known what he was doing.”

“And personally?” 

Alana stares at him, emotions washing over her one after the other. Her personal opinions are not needed in this investigation. 

“Found you….” Sherlock’s voice shakes the pair from conversation. The detective begins speaking as John makes his way to his side.

“Look, these prints here are not completely new, but fresher than most.” Sherlock uses his flash light to highlight a very slight print on the ground covering part of an area rug and the hardwood floor. “It is the foot print of someone about six feet in height, judging by the shoe size. Probably male.”

“Will is almost six feet,” Alana responds, believing that to simply be his print.

“Did Will typically cover his feet in plastic?” Sherlock asks, looking closely at something John neither Alana could see.

“I don’t believe so, why?”

“There is a very light stain here, it is a liquid substance and here is one of ‘fresh’ dirt and foliage from outside. The way that the stain was formed is very unique. It would only happen if it was a substance on the sole of the person’s foot that had a flat, water resistant surface, such a plastic shoe coverings. So if I do this-” Sherlock jumps up and begins closing all of the curtains and shuts off all of the lights, preventing as much light as possible from coming in. 

“Wh-”

“Just watch.” John looks at Alana, knowing Sherlock’s methods by heart, knowing what to expect.

“Look.” Sherlock points his black light at the ground, leaning over so that he can shine it over the print he’d seen. Slowly he walks toward the front door; the oddly shaped footsteps and stains growing clearer as he works backward. There are some overlapping prints from the three of them, but due to the unique shape, it is easy to tell what belongs to whom.

“I highly doubt your escaped psychopathic criminal has access to any materials like this to cover his tracks and would unlikely use the front door if he were trying to be sneaky.” Sherlock stands up straight, smiling brightly at John. “So that means someone else was here.”

“Meaning…” Alana begs the answer Sherlock is trying to get at.

“Either we have a second killer or someone is framing Will Graham.” Sherlock cannot help the smile on his face; cases like this are always exciting! You never know what is going to happen.

“That is quite a leap from footprints, detective.” Alana sputters in disbelief. “It could be investigators that had been looking around and not wanting to leave any traces.”

“Unlikely,” Sherlock sighs, shutting off his back light and turns the over head back on. “When there is no sign for days or weeks on end that a suspect will not be returning, patrolmen tend to grow lax and no bother with protocols maybe not even do proper rounds unless given reason to do so. So, we have a new suspect to find.”

“But,” Alana’s words go unheard as Sherlock turns to his phone, typing away to gather information for himself. 

“Come along John.” Sherlock calls, opening the front door and steps out onto the porch. 

“Come on Dr. Bloom. No sense arguing with him. He’s successfully solved hundreds of cases by making leaps like this.”

Alana nods, trying to go along with all of this. After all, she is a Psychiatrist, not an FBI agent. 

As they head out of Will’s home, they are greeted with the sight of a police cruiser pulling up the gravel drive way. An officer opens the door and places his hand on his gun holster while stepping out. Immediately he recognizes Dr. Bloom, but not the other two.

“Officer McKnulty, good to see you.” Alana gives a smile, hoping she can get out a long talk about why she is here without a police escort. After all, she knows she isn’t supposed to bring people here without Agent Crawford’s permission.

-

From several yards beyond the tree line behind Will Graham’s house, there is a pair of the blue-grey eyes of Will Graham himself are watching intensely. His body is weak and weary from days of being on the run and repeated sleepless nights. His prison jump suit is dirty and weather worn with holes and tears in random places. The shoes on his feet are caked in mud, his skin has traces of dirt and his beard is growing in unruly, having not been trimmed for several days.

Patiently, but anxiously he watched as Alana Bloom escorts two unfamiliar men into his house. Patiently he waits for them to leave, for five… then ten minutes before the house does dark, someone had shut the lights and closed the curtains. Why are they there? There is nothing to be found, nothing that the FBI wouldn’t have found. There is nothing that he wouldn’t have already discovered.

Will swallows hard, throat dry from dehydration; thankfully it has been warm the past few days, but that means bad news for fluid retention. He continues to watch, continues to wait. There is nothing else he can do, unless he wants to be caught. He’s innocent and he knows it; he’s not sick, not crazy. He didn't murder and cannibalize Abigail!

William Graham is not one of the delusional psychopaths he’s been trained to catch. 

He is just the intelligent psychopath that understands and can emphasize with them.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for any grammar or spelling errors and for the fact that this chapter is so very late. I've had some personal problems going on for a while and I'll spare you the details. This chapter will be edited for spelling and grammar later on.
> 
> Please enjoy!

"John! Get up John!" Sherlock's impatient voice startles John from a deep, nightmare free slumber.

"Wh-what?" John groans, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and glances at the clock. "It's four-thirty in the morning Sherlock." He yawns loudly, sitting up, covers pooling in his lap. 

"Yes it is, far from the point. Get dressed, there is work to be done." Sherlock takes one of his suits from the wardrobe in their hotel room and begins changing out of his night cloths.

"You haven't been to bed have you?" John comments as he too begins changing, at a much slower pace than his lover. 

The darkening circles beneath his eyes are noticeable, but as usual, a working Sherlock means he isn't going to be getting much sleep until the case is solved. As he recalls he didn't get into bed before John fell asleep and has probably been working on his laptop since after dinner.

"Been researching all of the cases concerning the Chesapeake Ripper, fascinating case really. How this man has been able to elude the police for so long is amazing; he is very thorough. Leaves little to no evidence, every crime scene is unique but holds the personality of the Ripper. Oh its brilliant..." Sherlock's voice is dripping with excitement, buttoning his dress shirt with shaking hands. He cannot wait to get out there.

"Don't let the FBI Agents see you looking so excited..." John comments, pulling his jumper over his head and stifles another yawn with his hand. "Where are we going and we're stopping for coffee on the way." 

"At one am, the car to a missing woman was found on a country road with no sign of the driver or any evidence that there was a struggle." Sherlock smirks, mischievous in his eyes.

"So?" John is having a hard time being interested in Sherlock's mind games, it is far too early for this. 

"So, this woman must have been captured by the Ripper, John!" Sherlock pulls his coat on in a theatrical flourish as he normally does for the dramatization of a case. "They say the car must have been there for at least twenty four hours before a passerby called the police to check it out. Some tabloid journalist did an article on it; the driver was named Mary Butler, a woman working on the Ripper case. Just like the other victims, she has nothing special about her. They have yet to find a body, so-"

"-So you want to find it before they did," John cuts Sherlock off, catching on to what he is saying. "Right, so where are we looking detective? Weren't the other victims found in strange places? Their bodies put on display as if they were the Ripper's work of art?" 

"Yes, exactly. To the Ripper they are nothing but a pig for slaughter. The cannibal that he is likes to make his victims into something beautiful - in his own mind. Oh I cannot wait to get into this one's head..." Sherlock opens the door, ushering John out. "Let's go we've wasted enough time."

"You didn't answer my question - where are we going?" And how could you possibly know where to look? John throws the detective a curious glance; Sherlock is known to pull things out of thin air, but he does not know Virginia. How could he know?

"The Ripper has a pattern, he makes each piece of art unique and leaves no links between the victims other than missing body parts... except I see the link between each one and my they are quite clever."

"What links?" 

"You'll see John, now drive."

Unable to argue with his lover, John puts the car into gear and drives off as told. Still, he stops at the nearest place to get coffee, he'll need it for this case.

-

"Where are they going?" Sam mumbles to himself, letting the curtain fall back into place over the window. The odd couple they ran into the night before had just climbed into their vehicle and drove off; but why at this hour?

"Where is who going?" Dean asks from his place on the bed, surfing the internet, not doing anything particularly productive. "Those foreigners from last night? Probably off to explore the wonders of Virginia on their 'Holiday'." Dean mocks a British accent, muttering about the tall one's posh attitude.

"At this hour?" Sometimes he wonders if his brother is even aware of what day of the week it is, let alone the time. 

"Who cares, did you find anything about case?" Dean changes the subject, looking away from the raunchy website he is on.

"You'd know if you did some actual work." Sam ignores the 'I don't care' look from his brother. "But nothing really, it's not appearing to be anything supernatural. I think we just have a regular old serial killer/cannibal on our hands."

"One that Virginia's finest hasn't been able to catch." Dean chokes back a laugh at his own comment. "I'm not convinced though; they said there was a murder the same day that profiler escaped. Demonic possession maybe? Witchcraft? What other things eat people's organs?" 

Dean is grasping at straws here, Sam can see that easily. Dean has been acting weird since they were introduced to this case; why is that?

"Why are you so convinced that it's something supernatural doing this?"

"Because why would someone kill another person to eat their freaking liver? It's wrong man!" Dean closes his lap top, unable to stop the disgusted shudder from coursing through him.

"Most Psychologists says it's a superiority thing or even for intimidation. This guy is probably a control freak."

"Whatever..." 

"We can still check it out if it makes you feel better. I've been keeping tabs on the missing persons reports and this guy's pattern seems to be in groups of threes, so there is bound to be a body that turns up soon."

"Wish we didn't have to wait for-" Dean stops, looking at the window. "Maybe that is where the freaky foreign couple are going, off to kill someone else. I could smell the crazy on the curly haired one."

"You think?" Sam cocks an eyebrow, now that is farfetched. "I really doubt it, they are probably just visiting on Holiday as you said."

"Worth a shot." Dean says as he gets up and grabs his coat. "Let's tail 'em."

"Got nothing better to do I guess." Sam follows suit, pulling on his jacket. Moments later the impala's engine roars to life and following the tail lights of the foreigners vehicle further down the road. 

-

Cold, freezing even; that is all Will feels. When he exhales, his breath comes out in a foggy cloud, evaporating quickly. His blue-grey eyes blink rapidly, consciousness settling in. 

The mangled body of a woman is lain out before him. Theatrical as all of the Chesapeake Ripper's crime scenes, this woman is lain out in such a manner as well. His brain erases the decay of the scene, and then the blood - the wounds closing up and then the body fading from before him until it is just Will standing in the middle of the corn field. 

Suddenly Will's body is on autopilot, imagining how the Ripper had done the unspeakable to this victim, hung upside down from a ceiling, the way the dried blood on the body says she was drained of her blood. While caked in dried blood, the body is drained of it's life sustaining substance, also missing several organs. There had been no struggle, this woman was unconscious before she was brought to her place of death, strung up and her major veins and arteries cut open to be drained before being butchered for her meat. Usually the Ripper only takes one organ, this woman is missing her kidneys, liver and heart. She has had the most peaceful - and merciful murder out of all of the Ripper's victims. 

"Why the sudden kindness?"

Will inhales sharply, shocked back into the real world - the forged memory fading away. He is trembling from the cold and now fear when he finds a pistol aimed at him, the wilder's companion at his side, hands in his coat pockets and evaluating him. His rainbow eyes hold no fear or disgust of the body before them; he is studying everything around them - curious.

"Do you usually loiter around crime scenes?" The Englishman asks; Will recognizes him, they are the men that Alana brought to his home the other day.

"Sherlock, I think this is the escaped suspect." John adjusts his grip on his pistol, not certain if this man is going to be a danger, but he would rather not take his chances.

"Yes, John, very good - see you are becoming a decent detective." Sherlock looks Will over carefully. He's not a murder or a cannibal, crazy maybe - but he's been suspected of being the murderer on more than one occasion. Sherlock wouldn't be the great detective that he is, if he was not able to recognize an innocent man when he sees one.

"You didn't answer my question, why did the Ripper show this woman such kindness?"

Will regrets the way he loses himself in his thoughts, his imagination when evaluating a crime scene; he seems to stumble upon trouble whenever this happens. If it weren't for the gun pointed at his head, he might make a run for it to avoid being caught again. He still has to prove that Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper and he can't do that inside a cell. It may be for the best if he just cooperates with these men - John and Sherlock, they aren't the police.

"He wasn't showing her kindness, not intentionally at least, he was just working quickly so the blood wouldn't coagulate. Adrenaline makes the blood thinner and sweeter, which is why he probably drained her. He probably made blood sausage." Will grimaces, recalling the organs the Ripper took. 

"Cannibals, so fascinating." Sherlock comments, now ignoring Will and circling the corpse, lain on the fallen trunk of a tree, decorated elegantly with flowers and leaves and twigs. The murderers in London were never this interesting, of course there were a few, but he's never dealt with a cannibal until now. John will have a field day blogging about this.

"I don't think so... getting inside this guy's head is just... terrifying." Will shudders, recalling the multiple times he's gotten inside the Ripper's head and re-enacted his crimes.

"We need to call this in," John says when Sherlock doesn't respond to Will's comment and pulls out his mobile, pistol being lowered in an act of trust. This man isn't going to hurt them, Sherlock wouldn't be this passive otherwise.

"Don't!" Will stops him, startling John, "I need to get out of here first." Would they understand? Let him leave? Would he have to force his way out?

"Oh," John feels conflicted about this, fingers frozen over the phone.

"We have more company." Sherlock says, looking up and into the dark tree line. The telltale glint of metal shone off of handgun came from over there. "You can come out." Sherlock calls, smirking to himself. He has a hunch as to who it is.

"Knew you'd end up here." Dean points his desert eagle at Sherlock, eyes narrowed.

"You're not real FBI, so what is it to?" John has his gun aimed at the shorter of the brothers, prepared to shoot him if needed.

"And two are suspects." 

"Standing at this crime scene makes us all suspects." Sherlock deadpans. He rolls his eyes and strides toward the brothers, hands in his pockets, noting how the shorter brother's trigger finger twitches. "Followed us, did you?"

"We saw you leave the motel suddenly. How did you find this place so easily if you aren't the one who killed that woman?" Sam swallows stiffly as he tries to control the situation and study the scene at the same time. 

"We're investigating the Chesapeake Ripper case, an empty vehicle turned up, so I used the bit of information available to find this crime scene." Sherlock states, as if it were obvious. 

"You found this body, from the fact that a woman's car was found on the side of the road?" Will questions, not believing it at all.

"I've read your case files as well, you've made some interesting jumps to figure out cases whereas no one else could with the information available. Don't talk to me about making unexplained leaps." Sherlock glares at Will, finding him to be far too similar to himself and far more unstable than he'd like to deal with.

"Fair enough," Will mutters, looking away and shifting awkwardly.

"Are we all just going to stand around with our thumbs up our asses or are we going to move this along before the actual police show up?" Dean argues, gun still pointed in their direction. He and John make eye contact, nodding to each other before turning their guns down. 

The men regard each other for a moment before getting work in their own specific ways.

Sam and Dean approach the body with caution, paranoia rolling off of them in waves, taking in the state of the woman's body and the scene around it. Sam takes only a moment or so to realize he was correct about this entire thing. This is just a typical murder. No EMF, no salt or goo or any strange substance or markings on the body that weren't man made. This poor woman is just the victim of a sick personal cannibalistic desires. He pulls Dean back, who is clearly looking for any signs of the supernatural.

"Dean, this isn't our field." Sam keeps his voice low, keeping back from the others. "We're not needed here."

"What kind of person does something like this?" Dean asks, disgust in his face, sorrow evident in his eyes for the way this woman was murdered.

"A psychopath," Sherlock answers, collecting a tiny hair from one of the wounds and places it inside of a plastic evidence baggie. Hopefully this will help, so long as there is enough for a DNA test.

"Do you recognize this hair color?" Sherlock turns to where Will was standing and finds him gone. He blinks and turns to John.

"When did he leave?" John is startled as well, how did he slip by them? Were they that engrossed with the crime scene? 

"He is a wanted suspect," Sam provides casually, taking the baggie from Sherlock and stares. "If this is the Ripper, he was careless. Normally he doesn't leave evidence." Sam hands it back and turns to Dean. It's time for them to go, they are needed elsewhere.

"Ready to go Sammy?" Dean is still trying to shake the gross feeling away, he still doesn't understand how a human can do something like this to another human.

"Where are you going?" John asks, suspicious.

"Look, you guys clearly got this and it's not really our area." Dean smiles, wanting them to just drop it.

"You pose as FBI agents and investigate odd murders, how is this not your area?" John gestures to the body, completely confused. 

"Let them go John, we don't need their help." Sherlock wishes they'd just go, putting the evidence baggie into his pocket and takes another moment to look over the bodies. "We should call the real FBI so they can process the crime scene, I've got all the information I need."

"See? We'll be on our way, let's go Sam." Dean turns on his heel, tucking his desert eagle into the waistband of his jeans.

"Good luck," Sam nods to John and follows after his brother, jogging to catch up with him.

John watches the brother for a few moments until the darkness cloaks them and pulls out his mobile again. No time to waste with worry about what they are doing, they have another things to worry about.

"Hello? My name is Captain John Watson, I'd like to report a murder."

**Author's Note:**

> This work is currently in progress. I will add chapters as I see fit, I will keep you updated on what is going on in my funny little mind. I did have a beta for this. My lovely friend Eva. #Thewanderingdetective but who knows if I messed up in any case.


End file.
